


The Case Of Sherlock Holmes

by pulangaraw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-24
Updated: 2011-06-24
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:00:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pulangaraw/pseuds/pulangaraw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drags John along to a new case. John isn't terribly pleased about it. Will they manage to work it out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case Of Sherlock Holmes

_John Watson has two roles in Sherlock Holmes’ life. First, he gives practical assistance in the conduct of his cases; he is the detective’s right-hand man, acting variously as look-out, decoy, accomplice and messenger. Second, he provides an audience for Sherlock’s thought processes and - often rather far-fetched - deductions._

=====

 _Are you busy? SH._

John looked at the patient file in front of him. Then he looked up at the patient and smiled apologetically. Before he could say anything, his phone buzzed again.

 _Never mind. Come to Baker Street immediately. SH._

“I'm sorry,” John said, “I just need to quickly-”

The phone buzzed again. _Bring sandwiches. SH_

John raised his eyebrows. Now that was new.

“Everything alright?” Mr Humsfield asked.

“What? Oh, yeah. I... uhm,” John looked at the text message again. Then he resolutely put the phone down and focused his attention back on Mr Humsfield. He had a job. He was busy. He was not Sherlock Holmes' personal butler.

Mr Humsfield turned out to be absolutely fine and all he needed was a couple Paracetamol and a good night's sleep. John told him so, politely of course. He was not thinking about Sherlock at all.

He was reaching for his next patient file when the phone buzzed yet again. _Egg and Cress for me. SH_

“Damn it,” John cursed under his breath and dropped the file back onto his desk. He got up, grabbed his jacket and went to the nurse at reception.

“I really have to leave, could you reschedule my appointments, please?” he asked Christie.

She looked at him disapprovingly as he left the surgery. Sarah would know exactly where he'd gone and John couldn’t help but wonder what was wrong with him and if he'd have a job to come back to tomorrow.

=====

“Ah, John,” Sherlock said, the moment John stepped into the flat. He was half-lying in the armchair, feet propped up on the cluttered coffee table. “Did you bring sandwiches?”

John held up the bag.

Sherlock sprang to his feet, suddenly all manic energy where a moment before he had been supine and motionless. He grabbed a suitcase from the sofa and grinned at John. “We're all ready to go, then.”

John dropped the bag onto the coffee table and held up his hands, effectively blocking Sherlock's way by not budging from his position in the doorway. “Hang on, there. We need to talk.”

“Not _now_! There's work to be done.” Sherlock grinned. It was the happiest John had seen him in days. Which meant the poor wall hopefully had another few days of respite and John would be able to sleep tonight. Possibly.

John bit back his arguments for now, eyed the suitcase suspiciously and asked, “Where are we going and what's with the sandwiches?”

“You're spoiling all the fun.”

John just waited him out.

Sherlock sighed theatrically. “Fine, be like that. We are going to Grasmere.”

John shook his head in disbelief. “We're going to the Lake District? Why?”

“Because I have a case,” Sherlock beamed, then continued, “Shouldn't take us more than a day or two. I've taken the liberty to pack your overnight things for you to facilitate a quick departure. The train goes in half an hour from King’s Cross. We can just make it.”

Again, Sherlock made for the door, but John wasn't done yet. “You want me to go to the Lake District with you and you packed overnight things for me without even asking me?”

Sherlock waved impatiently at the small suitcase, completely ignoring the second part of the question. It was clear that he either couldn’t understand John’s problem or that he chose to not understand it.

John rubbed a hand over his face. “Sherlock, I can't just drop everything here and go on a wild goose chase with you. I have a job and-”

“We're not chasing geese, but a murderer,” Sherlock interrupted him, “Would you rather stay here and look at sick people all day?”

Something in the way Sherlock said it - sounding more disappointed than mocking - made John give in.

“Alright. Fine.” He grabbed the bag with the food and stepped aside to let Sherlock lead them down the stairs. “But I need to call Sarah and let her know I won't be in tomorrow.”

Sherlock wasn't even listening.

=====

 _Holmes is pleased when he is recognised for having superior skills and responds to flattery, as Watson remarks, as a girl does to comments upon her beauty._

=====

They arrived at the How Foot Lodge at around 6pm. The train had only taken them as far as Windermere, where Sherlock had John rent a car – grumbling about the lack of taxis and public transport for ten minutes – and made John drive the rest of the way, answering to John's inquiry about his own driving skills with, “Why would I want to clutter up my brain with that kind of information?”

Sherlock had filled John in on the details of the new case during the train ride. Alicia Johnson, wife of local business man Matthew Johnson had been fished out of Lake Grasmere two days ago – dead. Blunt force trauma to the head and subsequent drowning had been found to be the cause of death and the police suspected the husband. The husband denied having anything to do with it and since his lawyer was worried about the - albeit circumstantial - evidence implicating his client, he'd suggested they involve a certain Mr Sherlock Holmes, who was known for performing miracles for people wrongfully accused of crimes. At which point Sherlock had received a phone call.

John had made another attempt at talking to Sherlock about the fact that he couldn't just keep dictating John's life like John belonged to him, but Sherlock had shushed him before he even really got started, and declared he needed to think. He'd produced a pair of headphones and a brand-new iPod. “For travel. The violin is too bulky to carry around.”

When they arrived at the lodge, the landlady took them to their room and left them with a wink and an enthusiastic, “Enjoy your stay!”

John looked around. “We're sharing a room?”

“It's convenient.” Sherlock flopped down onto the bed.

“That's a double bed,” John observed.

“Indeed.”

John glared at Sherlock until he was paying attention. “You're mad.”

“Of course I'm mad. Why did you have to book a double room when you could just as easily have booked two singles. Give people less reason to talk.”

“We live together. People are already talking.”

“In London. And that's already bad enough.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do get some perspective. No one cares. We're here on business.”

“'Get some-?” John broke off. He counted to five in his head. “You really don't get it, do you?”

“Get what?”

John shook his head, suddenly very tired.

Sherlock eyed him for a moment and John willed him to push the issue, to acknowledge that there was something they should talk about. But Sherlock could be the most intentionally thick person in the world if it suited him. And right now, John could tell, that the case was much more interesting to him than their little situation here.

“Let's visit the husband,” Sherlock said.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. “Yes, let's,” he murmured as he followed Sherlock out.

=====

 _Sherlock Holmes' straightforward practical principles are generally of the form, "If 'p', then 'q'," where 'p' is observed evidence and 'q' is what the evidence indicates._

=====

“I know you requested to see the body, but that will have to wait until tomorrow when the morgue in Windermere is open again,” the lawyer said. John was glad he didn't see Sherlock’s scowl and eyeroll, as he was bending down to pick up a folder. He handed it to Sherlock. “For now, this is all the information I have received about the case, including the police photographs.”

Sherlock took the folder, spread its contents out on the table and seemed to forget about anyone else in the room. John took the chair next to him, waiting patiently for Sherlock to finish. The husband and his lawyer had looked at them strangely when they'd rung the doorbell at 9pm, but Sherlock had simply stated that John was a friend – which John amended to 'colleague' almost without thinking – and then ignored the matter.

The lawyer and the mousey-faced husband were hovering at the other end of the table, clearly unsure about what to do. After a few minutes, Sherlock shoved everything back into the file and stood up. “I guess we'll be going then. See you in the morning.”

“Wait a moment,” the lawyer held up his hand, “You haven't told us what you are going to do yet.”

Sherlock looked surprised. “I am going to go to bed.”

“But-”

“Clearly, there is nothing I can do here today,” Sherlock elaborated impatiently, “Once I have seen the corpse tomorrow morning, I shall give you my theory. You don't mind if I take the file with me, I assume. Good night, gentlemen.”

With that he strode out of the room. John gave the two men a small shrug and an apologetic smile and followed suit, too tired to be polite.

=====

 _According to Watson, Holmes is an eccentric, with no regard for contemporary standards of tidiness or good order._

=====

Back at their room, Sherlock handed John the file. “What do you make of this?”

John took out the photographs. “Wow, she was pretty.”

“Was she?”

“Oh come on, don't tell me you didn't notice it,” John said, holding up one of the photographs, taken before Mrs Johnson's death.

Sherlock shrugged. “It is of no relevance to the case. Try to concentrate on the matter at hand, John.”

John went back to the information. “Blunt force trauma looks like she was hit with something long that had an edge.” Sherlock nodded, putting the tips of his fingers together. John continued, “The water in her lungs is lake water, which means she drowned in the lake. According to the report, the time of death was roughly 46 hours before she was found, which means she drowned sometime in the late evening.”

“Clearly. Which means?”

“Which means we should find out what a 37 year-old, married woman was doing on Lake Grasmere in the middle of the night?” John ventured.

“That's easy. She was having an affair.”

“Okay...”

“We will find the gentleman in question tomorrow morning. Anything else?”

John shook his head. “Nothing that strikes me. What about you?”

“I have some ideas, but they can wait until the morning. Time to sleep.”

Now that Sherlock’s mind was off the case, John was half inclined to pick up their earlier argument. The longer he stayed with Sherlock the more it irritated him how his presence was taken for granted. Sherlock seemed to assume that John would simply follow his every whim. They needed to talk about this. He needed to set some ground rules for their... relationship, such as it was. If he didn’t, he knew their friendship wouldn’t last very long.

John looked over at Sherlock, who was sprawled on the bed in an almost insolent manner. He was still wearing all his clothes, but didn’t seem inclined to change yet. John wondered if there was some deeper meaning to Sherlock’s behaviour, then dismissed the thought as silly. Of course there was a deeper meaning. Sherlock never did anything without having some secret agenda. The question was if John wanted to know what it was.

John decided that he didn’t. Those thoughts could lead too closely to things he did not wish to examine right now.

=====

 _It is especially in Holmes’ friendship with Watson that we can observe the more ‘human’ aspect of the great detective. Their friendship is probably the most significant relationship in Holmes’ life._

=====

The next morning, John woke to find Sherlock sitting at the little table next to the window, watching him intently.

“How long've you been doing that?” John asked, the words still blurring together.

“What?”

“You're watching me.” John sat up. “Don't.” He felt stupidly self-conscious and told himself sternly to get a grip.

For a moment, there was something in Sherlock's expression, something that John couldn't read, but it was gone again in an instant. Sherlock got up and started pacing the room. “Come on, it's already seven.”

Grumbling, John got up and went into the bathroom.

When John was finished with his morning routine and came out again, Sherlock stopped just short of bumping into him. “Are you finished?”

“If you would get out of my way, I'd be a lot faster.” John said tetchily.

Sherlock huffed. He seemed to be in a bad mood all of a sudden and John could just imagine the joy of having to deal with an irritated Sherlock all day long.

====

Mr Whitley was a prime specimen, John thought to himself as the man opened the door. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with wavy black hair that was beginning to turn grey at the temples. He had a masculine but friendly face, and when John compared him mentally with Mr Johnson, he could see what might have attracted his wife to this man.

When Sherlock mentioned Mrs Johnson, the man paled and gestured for them to come in. “How did you find out about us?” he asked, once they had explained their reasons for being there.

“Simple deduction,” Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “The important question is, when was the last time you saw her?”

The man swallowed, “I don't think I should answer that question.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened. John – seeing an insult coming – quickly jumped in, “Mr Whitley, it's only a matter of time until the police are going to work out that you two had an affair. Then you will be the main suspect. If you are innocent, it would be in your own interest to tell us everything you know.”

Mr Whitley still looked unconvinced.

“Of course, if you did kill her, not saying anything would be the wise choice. Not that it would matter much in the end,” Sherlock pushed.

“The day she died,” Mr Whitley said after a moment of consideration. “She was here. We had dinner. We made love. Then she left.”

“How did she travel?” Sherlock asked, “By car?”

Mr Whitley shook his head, “No she took the boat. This is a small community, Mr Holmes. She didn't want anyone to see her car at my house. She always took the boat when she came to visit me.”

He gestured out the window, where they could see Lake Grasmere glittering through the trees. “She left at around 10pm to go home. That's the last time I saw her.”

“What kind of boat?”

The man described a small wooden rowing boat with an outboard motor. Sherlock sat a few minutes in silence, then he got up. “I think that's all I need. Goodnight Mr Whitley.”

With that he went out and left it to John, again, to perform the socially appropriate gestures of reassuring the distraught man and saying goodbye.

======

“You know, you could at least _try_ not to piss everyone off,” John said after they’d been driving for a few minutes.

“What?”

“It would be nice if I didn’t have to spend half my time trying to cover for your rudeness.”

“I never asked you to.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was looking out the side window. “No, but you keep asking me to come along to your cases, and sometimes actions speak louder than words.”

“You could always refuse.” Sherlock turned his head to look at John.

This was it, the most opportune moment for John to make his point. He had Sherlock’s attention, they were already on the topic and yet... John thought of Sherlock’s strange, unreadable expression that morning, and cursed his own cowardice.

“I know.”

“I don’t see the point of being polite. It’s simply wasting time.”

“You catch more flies with honey, than with a canon,” John said, stupidly relieved at the change of topic.

Sherlock snorted but didn’t say anything else. John wondered how dangerous it would be to bang his head against the steering wheel while driving.

They spent the rest of the drive to Windermere's morgue in silence.

=====

 _Holmes's demeanour is presented as dispassionate and cold._

=====

They returned from Windermere’s morgue and a meeting with the lawyer, the police and the husband in the late afternoon. The corpse hadn’t given them any more clues - at least none that John could fathom - and Sherlock still seemed to be in a bad mood. He hadn’t spoken much on their way back. It was growing dark out, and still they both seemed to be just biding their time, waiting for... John wasn’t sure what.

“John,” Sherlock said eventually, “I solved the case.”

John looked up from sorting through the suitcase. “You solved it.”

“At this point it is, of course, mostly theories. Which is why I won't bore you with the details just yet. We need to find the boat.”

“Which means that you're not entirely sure and don't want to look like an idiot, should it turn out that you were wrong.”

“I never look like an idiot.”

“Of course not,” John muttered.

Sherlock sat up. “You’re becoming insufferable. What is the matter with you? ”

John took a deep breath and swore to himself that this time he would not back down.

“You want the list alphabetically or in order of annoyance level?”

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes, but now that John was getting started he wasn’t going to stop. Sherlock had given him an in, and he was damn well going to take it.

“The matter is that you are an insufferable asshole. You don’t care if I am busy or tired or just plain don’t want to do something, you just go ahead and expect me to run along after you. The matter is that you’re treating me like you bloody own me and it pisses me off.”

“I’ve never forced you to do anything.” Sherlock said quietly.

John laughed humorlessly, “No? What about yesterday? When you dragged me along to the fucking Lake District, just so you didn’t have to go alone.”

“I didn’t know you hated spending time with me that much.”

That wasn’t the point and it was unfair and Sherlock knew it. John could hear it in Sherlock’s tone, could see it in Sherlock’s expression. Sherlock knew exactly what this was about, knew it maybe even better than John did, but he just wouldn’t admit it.

“You know what? Fuck you.”

John grabbed his coat and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

====

 

 _On several occasions, Holmes' fondness for Watson—often hidden beneath his cold, intellectual exterior—is revealed._

====

John’s phone rang. It had been over an hour and John had been expecting the phone call about half an hour ago. He looked at the display and - of course - it was Sherlock. Probably needed a lift to somewhere, he thought a little hysterically.

John stopped the rental car by the side of the road, unwilling to drive and talk while on an unknown country road in the dark. He took the call. “What?”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

“Why don’t you deduce it.”

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock sounded like he was going to continue, but then didn’t. The silence stretched.

“Goodbye, Sherlock,” John said and hung up.

He sat in the silent car afterwards and stared at the phone in his hand. Emotions warred within him. Part of John wanted to turn the car around, go back and face Sherlock. He wanted to spill it all out, all those things he’d been barely aware he was feeling and wanting. The truth was that at least part of his frustration stemmed from his own denied feelings.

God, he wanted Sherlock. It was time he finally admitted it, at least to himself. John had no idea when his feelings for Sherlock had become more than just friendship, but it didn’t really matter anyway. He slumped forward and rested his head on the steering wheel.

He should start the car up. He should keep driving. Back to London, back to the flat. Get his stuff and go. Go someplace far away from Sherlock where he could get himself under control again.

The phone rang. John answered without looking at the display, without letting himself think about it.

“ _John, come back._ ”

John shook his head, silently.

“John.” It sounded like a plea and something caught in John’s chest.

“Sherlock,” he whispered hoarsly.

“Please.”

====

 _Holmes is as inhuman as a Babbage's calculating machine and just about as likely to fall in love_

====

Later, John couldn’t remember much of his drive back to the lodge. When he parked the car, Sherlock’s dark form appeared out of the shadows of the house. He waited until John got out of the car, then stepped closer.

John stood, at a loss what to do or say. Yet again, the right words eluded him. There was so much he wanted and yet he still had no idea how to ask for it. How much would be welcome.

Sherlock made the decision for him. He walked up to John, took his face between his hands, bent down and kissed him.

John stood frozen for a moment. Then Sherlock parted his lips slightly and John threw caution to the wind.

When they broke for air, John let his head fall forward and rested it against Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock,” he whispered. He still had no idea how to continue.

Sherlock stroked a hand down John’s back and said just as quietly, “I know.”

A laugh escaped John. Of course he did. He’d probably known since before John did.

“You’re an arsehole.”

“And you’re an idiot.” Sherlock lifted John’s head so he could look at him. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock again.

====

“So, you solved the case,” John said. He turned on the bed so he faced Sherlock and rested his head on one hand.

Sherlock crossed his arms behind his head, looking smug. “I have.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“I need to find the boat first.” Sherlock sat up and squinted at the bathroom door. “Do we have a bathtub here?”

“What boat, yes we do and what has one got to do with the other?”

“Alicia Johnson’s boat. I’ll need a fan. There’s one in the lounge. Go get-,” he paused, “Would you mind getting it for me?”

John smiled. “Since you ask so politely. Mind if I get dressed first?”

Sherlock smiled back broadly. “By all means.”

====

Two hours later, John was thoroughly bored. Sherlock had been in the bathroom most of the time, blowing paper boats across the water-filled bathtub with the fan that John procured from the lounge.

John’s questions as to the point of this latest experiment were all answered with the same sentence: “I’m finding the boat.”

Eventually John had enough. He put on his shoes and coat, stuck his head into the bathroom and told Sherlock he was going for a walk.

====

 _Holmes has an ego that at times borders on arrogant, albeit with justification; he draws pleasure from baffling police inspectors and people around him with his superior deductions._

====

 _“John, The boat is at Moushole Point. Approximately half a mile south of Mr Withley’s house.”_

“I know, I just found it.”

 _“What? How?”_ Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. John smiled to himself.

“I walked.”

There was a pause on the line, then Sherlock said, “Pick me up,” and hung up.

====

Sherlock inspected the boat twice. Once at the shore, after John had picked him up and driven them back to the point where he’d found it. The second time after it had been taken into the police station’s garage. The light was better there.

John stood aside, not wanting to interrupt whatever thinking was going on inside Sherlock’s head. Sherlock crawled all over the boat and the little outboard motor.

“John,” Sherlock called eventually. “Come here.”

Once John had crawled into the boat as directed, Sherlock had him pull the cord of the motor.

“There’s no gas,” John said after the first attempt and stopped.

“Pull again, harder,” Sherlock said. John pulled another couple times, then stopped holding his shoulder.

“How does your shoulder feel?” Sherlock asked.

John scowled. “Sore.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock looked triumphant.

“So, what’s your theory?” the police inspector, who had watched the whole thing, asked.

“Not a theory,” Sherlock answered haughtily. “I _know_ what happened.”

“The husband killed her while she was crossing the lake?”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Then what _did_ happen?” John asked.

Sherlock favoured him with a look of isn’t-it-obvious, but John just waited him out. He was feeling a lot more patient since last night’s revelations.

“She says good night to her boyfriend and gets in the boat. Halfway home, the boat runs out of gas. Stranded in the middle of the lake she panics, starts pulling the engine cord. She pulls so hard, she dislocates her shoulder and falls forward. She hits her head and goes under, where she remains until her body is discovered.”

John raised his eyebrows. “So... it was an accident.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re going to have to prove that,” The police inspector said.

Sherlock went on to do just that.

====

The train back was - surprisingly - half empty and on time. John made himself comfortable on the seat next to Sherlock, who was already fiddling with the headphone cables.

“You know, there’s still some things we need to talk about,” John said.

He half expected Sherlock to ignore him, but Sherlock paused and said, “Can it wait until we’re home?”

John nodded and smiled. “Yes. That’s fine.”

He took out the book he’d bought at the station in Windermere. Just something light to pass the time. Sherlock glanced over. “The stable boy is actually the long-lost son of the earl next door.”

“You’ve read it?”

“No, but that’s always the plot. That or the maid is the kidnapped daughter of the duchess from three counties down.”

“I’ll let you know which one it is once I’ve finished.” John said and cracked the spine.

“Please don’t.” Sherlock put the headphones into his ears and closed his eyes. “I know far too much already.”

“Understatement of the year,” John says to no one in particular.

**Author's Note:**

> If the case Sherlock is solving appears familiar to you, you have seen _CSI Las Vegas_ episode 1.01 too many times. Or you just have a very good memory. Thank you CSI writer-monkeys for giving me a case to help this fic along.
> 
> All quotes in italics are taken from [Wikipedia's Sherlock Holmes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sherlock_holmes) page.
> 
> The rest is all mine. ;)


End file.
